The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.2009, Blaðsíða 33

Vol. 62 #3
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
175
famous Thorlakson Clinic, now known as
the Winnipeg Clinic, there was always a
high level of respect for any tentative diag-
nosis reached by Doc Thompson.
His passion for people went beyond
the well being of the person to the health of
the community. Nothing escaped Dr.
Thompson's concern for life - everyone
and everything was important to him. Next
to people, I believe his next greatest passion
for living things was for the trees. Most of
the trees in the community were planted by
him, but only with a narrow lead on Kris
Thorarinson, who shared Doc’s enthusi-
asm, coming by this pursuit more natural-
ly, for, in addition to his general store, he
ran a lumber business based on a mill he
operated at Hecla. Between the two of
them Riverton was assured that it would
have a vigorous growth of green hair. Their
tree of choice was elm, an unfortunate
choice in hindsight, given the later intru-
sion of Dutch elm disease.
Doc also exercised his devotion to the
people and community wearing many
other hats, including as an MLA (member
of the legislative assembly) and in his last
years as a historian of the area. Having
grown up in Selkirk, he had been deeply
immersed in the lake and its people since
boyhood. No man was more deeply
involved in this place and time than Doctor
Thompson. In Riverton, in the Icelandic
way, everyone young and old knew each
other by their first name, so even at 4 it was
Oli, not Mr. Olafson even if there was 60
years between us, except for Doctor, or
Doc. Thompson which is the only way I
ever knew him. Somehow, for him, using
his first name did not fit, and I do not think
I even knew it was Steinn till I started
returning home from University.
Kids did kids’ stuff, but we didn’t get
to sit in the family room eating supper in
front of the TV. Young or old, you were at
the table and in the conversation, learning
to talk and to listen. That was the Icelandic
way and it was my sense that it also became
Riverton’s way, whatever your back-
ground was. There were few secrets about
anything. You knew the good news and the
bad news, from family finances to argu-
ments. You became aware of who you were
and what you were a part of at a very early
stage in life. I was free to live in my child-
hood world, but it overlapped in a myriad
of ways with that of the grown-ups. That
normally worked out quite nicely, but it
wasn’t always a good thing. Involvement
and information about the adult world
came with responsibility and accountabili-
ty at a young age.
Riverton, maybe even more than most
small places, didn’t like to be pushed
around. When the rural centralization
ethos of the ARDA (Agriculture
Rehabilation Development Act) program
of the 1960s became twinned with “school
consolidation” which would have the kids
from Riverton bussed to Gimli or Arborg,
the community stood on its haunches or
perhaps more accurately, the women and
kids stood together as one. Certain that
with the loss of the school would go the
village and with the likes of Mayor Beatrice
Olafson, Anna Thorarinson, Emily
Oleson, Sylvia Sigurdson and countless
others on the warpath, with the kids as
loyal lieutenants, no force of man or nature
could penetrate their brigade. Armed with
the statistics of an incredible record of aca-
demic success and the energy intensity of a
ripsaw, they repelled assault upon assault.
Riverton would continue to have its
school, the authorities’ finally announced.
All that was left was to savour the sweet
taste of victory and to await the return of
the men from the construction sites and the
fishing stations. With the war over, the
mothers could go back to the more tranquil
buzz of the WI and the Ladies Aid, and the
kids to school, and to the rink, and on exot-
ic expeditions to places like Sandy Bar.
Everybody knew of Sandy Bar, but
almost no one ever went there, except kids
on bikes for an adventure and old guys
from Riverton to reminisce. I can’t remem-
ber a time when I didn’t know of Sandy
Bar. For those of us who grew up in
Riverton, it was our special place. Sandy
Bar is a sliver of sand threading its way
between the lake and the marshland,
around the corner south from the mouth of
the Icelandic River. Like an outstretched
hand it reaches northward across the bay
toward Hecla Island. Moving and moody